Bloodraven (59 page)

“Is this vengeance?” he panted. “For sending you into the snow?”

Bloodraven could not quite form an answer, momentarily stymied by the sound of amusement. He’d never had a bedmate, of either human or ogre blood, that had found amusement from any touch of his.

It was very seldom that laugher of any sort might be heard in ogre camps, save for the malicious sort that accompanied great pain or violence being inflicted. Ogrish amusements very seldom had joyous ends.

“Yes,” he answered finally, low and rough, very much feeling the need not to sound at a complete loss.

Yhalen blinked up at him, humor fading, lashes hiding whatever resided in his eyes.

“Fair enough.”

Yhalen caught his breath and drew one of Bloodraven’s cold hands between his much smaller warm ones, brought it to his mouth and breathed hot breath upon cold fingers, much as Bloodraven had done for him hours earlier.

It was enough to make his body spring fully to attention, nerve endings prickling down the entirety of his body, blood pounding urgently in his nether regions. Bloodraven groaned, catching Yhalen’s jaw and covering his mouth with his own, plunging his tongue past soft lips and slick teeth to plunger the depths of his mouth. He rolled atop him, covering Yhalen’s smaller body with his own and catching his weight on one elbow while he ran the other hand eagerly down the sleek body beneath him.

The need came upon him so urgently that it took almost more strength of will than he possessed not to take Yhalen as brutally as Yhalen had ridden him that last night in Elvardo’s keep. But that had been more self-flagellation than sex, and Bloodraven had no wish to inflict needless pain. He slowed his breathing, though the thud of his pulse continued to race as he made his way from Yhalen’s soft mouth to the hollow behind his jaw.

Yhalen made a soft, keening sound, fingers curling about Bloodraven’s arms as he spread his legs so that Bloodraven settled between his knees with open invitation. Bloodraven plunged his hands beneath Yhalen’s body, lifting him up as he grasped his buttocks and kneaded firm flesh. Yhalen’s nails bit into the skin of his shoulders as he arched, the rigid heat of his erection pressed against Bloodraven’s belly.

That was all it took. Bloodraven’s control slipped and he flung the blanket off, kneeling between his human’s spread thighs as he snatched the small bottle of oil he’d salvaged from the packs, then set near the fire to warm. He spilled a portion in his palm, the liquid still a little sluggish and thick from cold temperatures. Rubbing his hands briskly, he coated his fingers, then himself, before pulling Yhalen towards him, settling his hips upon Bloodraven’s thighs. Yhalen’s cock bounced upon his belly, and the juncture between his buttocks called for Bloodraven’s attention.

He spread the cheeks and rubbed his thumb across the puckered nub of flesh around the opening.

Yhalen threw an arm across his face and moaned, and a tightening stab of need pierced Bloodraven’s lower anatomy. He slipped his index finger inside and the flesh clung to it like a suckling mouth. A bead of sweat ran down Bloodraven’s temple, spurred by his restraint. He could well imagine the same tight muscle clinging to his thick cock. Could feel the pulsing heat inside.

He took a shuddering breath and worked the finger in and out, stroking the big vein on the underside of Yhalen’s cock with his thumb as he did. He ran the same hand down Yhalen’s taut belly to the tiny nubs of nipples gone hard and pebbly from either cold or ardor. He leaned forward, pressing his finger 184

inside Yhalen to the knuckle, and took one small teat in his mouth.

Yhalen’s fingers grasped at his hair, then caught hold of the sensitive outer ridge of his ears and forced his head up. He peered at Bloodraven, the irises of his eyes gone large and dilated behind heavy lids and thick lashes.

“Get on with it,” he rasped, his voice breathless and rough from a combination of the cold and arousal.

Bloodraven pulled back a little to study him, but not much and not for long. He couldn’t ignore such an order, no matter who it came from. He shoved Yhalen’s knees forward, almost to his shoulders, and positioned himself at his entrance. Worked against the resistance with slow, twisting strokes, until the slick tip of his cock had wormed its way inside. It was only a matter of pushing the rest of the way in, then—of sliding into heat and constriction that was as close to heaven as anything he’d ever imagined.

He kneaded the trembling, taut muscles of Yhalen’s thighs, smoothed away the reflexive tick that quivered under the smooth skin of Yhalen’s shoulder. Leaning forward, he braced his hands on either side of Yhalen’s head, curling his fingers into the burnished hair that lay in unruly waves on the bedding and drove in to the hilt. Felt Yhalen gasp and shudder beneath him—around him, body as always accepting the intrusion and adapting to the size and length of him.

And then, he simply fucked. Mindless, satisfying rhythm, feeding the building crescendo of pleasure that drew his balls up, hard and full and excruciatingly sensitive. He spilled his seed, a careless release buried deep inside his human’s ass. Strained and shuddered and felt the tension drain out of him even as the last waves of orgasm passed. He remained for a moment or two, head lowered, spots of color dancing behind his closed lids, then pulled out, his cock sliding out with an accompanying trail of milky, clear seed. There were red marks where his fingers had grasped Yhalen’s thighs that would darken to bruises by tonight. He hadn’t taken the care he usually did in restraining his strength.

But Yhalen voiced no complaint, his cock still half hard on his belly, which made Bloodraven’s lips turn up in satisfaction. He’d been remiss in not attending to it, while he was taking his own pleasure.

He would see to it now and take his time at it, for they had a storm to wait out in this cave before they might take up travel again.

185

With morning the storm had abated, passing southward where warmer climes would undoubtedly turn snow to rains. The snow left in its wake was now an unbroken, pristine blanket of white.

Yhalen woke to Bloodraven’s stirring. Warm and comfortable in the cocoon of fire warmed blankets and ogr’ron flesh, he lamented an end to slumber.

Bloodraven murmured something that might have been an apology before he lifted the covers and let the cold rush in to hasten the wakening process. Yhalen hissed, lurching to his knees and clutching the covers back around his shoulders. He watched balefully as Bloodraven moved, naked and seemingly unaffected by the cold, to the packs. There were considerably fewer things than there had been.

Amazing that there was anything, considering that the last Yhalen had seen of the pack mules, they’d been struggling in the clutches of the icy stream.

He shivered at the memory, pulling his blankets tighter. His clothing was laid out on rocks near the fire, and when he ventured a hand out to drag his trousers towards him, he discovered them dry and pleasantly warm. It was as good a time to pull them on as any, with the kiss of the fire still lingering in the leather.

By the time he’d pulled on his tunic and laced the accompanying vest over it, Bloodraven was padding back towards the fire with his hands full of supplies. It was a plain breakfast, half of their foodstuff having been divided between the pack animals. Bloodraven had told him of the loss of the one.

Bloodraven pulled on his trousers while the pan bread cooked. Vorja was absent, likely hunting up her own breakfast in the new snow.

They ate dry, mealy pan bread and drank tea in silence. Afterwards, Yhalen wiped the skillet clean and rose stiffly to start repacking the supplies that Bloodraven had taken out during the night to dry.

He felt a pang of guilt for the deprivation of half their stores. The pack animals had been under his guidance when they had gone into the water. The loss was on his head. That Bloodraven had been forced to wade into the water to retrieve him and the remaining mule was a great shame. Last night he’d been too cold and miserable to dwell on it. It pricked at his pride now.

He knelt near the fire, dividing the remaining stores into three sets of packs. Two smaller ones that he and Bloodraven would carry, and a larger one for the remaining pack animal. He brooded while he worked, building a fine head of guilt-fed indignation and finally blurted out, “I’m not un-adept at woodcraft.”

Bloodraven looked up from the sword he was oiling. The hatchet was by his side, having also received scrupulous cleaning after being submerged. The halfling canted his head questioningly.

“I am...
was
renowned for my woodcraft. I was first of my age to be welcomed into the circle of hunters. To be allowed my first braid.” He lifted his hand reflexively to his hair where the slim hunter’s braid should have hung down from his temple. It had come undone somewhere along the way, and he’d not even noticed.

“My father was...so proud....”

He flexed his fist helplessly, a sudden wave of loss surging over him. He looked up into Bloodraven’s golden eyes, which were not condemning, nor pitying, but simply curious.

“It was never so cold at home. Never so much snow. It’s not full winter here yet, is it?”

Bloodraven shook his head.

Yhalen shuddered and tied off the first of his packs. He’d do better. He’d learn to ignore the cold, for the sake of his own pride. If he’d survived the icy daggers of the stream, he could endure the snow and the mountain winds.

He found a carved bone comb that Elvardo had provided, a frivolous addition to their stores, but not an unappreciated one, considering the moodiness of his hair when slept on unbraided. He sat cross-legged near the fire, with strips of leather on his knee and began the process of working through tangles.

186

He felt the weight of Bloodraven’s scrutiny, but wasn’t so intimidated by it as he once had been. It was still no easy thing to ignore Bloodraven’s presence, but flinching from his attention did not happen so frequently.

The fact that a body so large could move so quickly and silently was disquieting, though.

Bloodraven rose and shifted around the fire before Yhalen realized he’d moved. Yhalen eyed him warily, but the halfling only settled behind him, removing the comb from his hands and gathering Yhalen’s hair in his fingers, working the comb through the unruly mass with the same diligence he’d used on his weapons.

Yhalen sat still, the tension that had hardened his back slowly bleeding out. Bloodraven’s hands were assured in their movements, the comb applied gently. The roughened calluses of his big fingers occasionally brushed across the back of Yhalen’s neck, and he shivered at each unintentional touch.

Memories arose unbidden of similar skillful caresses across the bare skin of his body. He shut his eyes and thought of biting wind and frigid mountain streams. It was enough to curb the rebellious tingle in his loins.

There was the steady pull of his hair being braided, the tying off of the tail, and then the touch of Bloodraven’s fingers at his temple, gathering a long lock of hair that he had excluded from the thick braid at his back. Yhalen’s eyes snapped open in surprise, but Bloodraven ignored him, turning Yhalen’s head with a touch at his jaw so that he might better work at the small, tight braid that contributed so thoroughly to Ydregi pride.

When he’d finished, he patted Yhalen twice on the shoulder, as he might reward Vorja for sitting still through a grooming session, and then pushed himself to his feet.

“The day’s still young. There are many hours of travel before dusk.”

After donning his own dried clothing, Bloodraven cleared the mouth of the cave and went to dig out the animals. When he was gone, Yhalen hesitantly touched the slim, slick braid at his temple. It was finely done, with no stray hairs escaping the weave. His father had honored him with the first working of his hunter’s braid. A great sign of respect. He wondered if Bloodraven knew.? Even if he didn’t, which was more than likely, it had still been an act of regard that Yhalen felt to his core.

Gratitude was not an emotion he was used to feeling towards Bloodraven. He hardly knew how to deal with it, hardly knew how to equate it with the comfortable antipathy that Bloodraven usually aroused when he wasn’t warping Yhalen’s mind with sex.

He finished the packs and sat them near the mouth of the cave, just beyond the tumble of snow. He had no idea where this cave was in relation to the stream, having been insensible when Bloodraven had brought him here. When he stepped out into the rough path that Bloodraven had trampled, he realized that even if there had been landmarks to gain his bearings by, they were now well covered in snow.

The world was white and silent, the blanketed trees bending under the weight of snow. The wind had mercifully abated, leaving a cold, bright day in its wake. The snow reached past his knees in places, but if he followed in Bloodraven’s path walking was easier.

Bloodraven led the mule out first, the solid little beast plowing through snow as if it were merely tall stalks of grass. It seemed unaffected, though the tips of its bristly mane and tail were coated with ice.

Yhalen dragged out the big pack and the thick blanket that protected the beast’s back from the canvas of the packs and watched as Bloodraven secured it. The horses were next, first Bloodraven’s big mount, and then Yhalen’s smaller one. Yhalen’s tack was mostly dry, but the leather of the saddle still held a little frigid dampness. There was no helping it, save another day and night spent drying by a strong fire. And that luxury Bloodraven’s impatience would not allow.